


Fire and Blood

by whatwouldjonesdo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatwouldjonesdo/pseuds/whatwouldjonesdo
Summary: Drogon roared beneath her and her anger roared with him and reared its ugly head, no advisors left to chain her fury. I will take it, she thought. With fire and blood, I will take it.





	Fire and Blood

It had been the first time she had felt something burn, she thought. Not like the sting of her brother’s abuses or first bedding with Drogo, and unlike the crack of a whip upon her pale back. It was hot and searing and all-consuming, spreading like wildfire from the entry wound at her breast to her legs and face and to the edges of her fingertips still embedded like knives into Jon Snow’s shoulders. 

She saw their faces as her vision began to tunnel - all of them. Viserion, the dragon who did what her brother could not until the moment he crashed through the ice and she failed to protect him. Ser Jorah, the only constant in her short life and her strength from the barren Red Waste to the Battle of Winterfell where he fell protecting her; yet she could not protect him. Rhaegal, her brave brother re-embodied butchered and sniped from the sky like a dove - she watched him fall, like Viserion before him, and she could not protect him. Missandei, her sweet Missandei, freed by her only to be beheaded and left to rot outside the city - she had sworn to protect her, and she died in chains. Protector of the Realm, she mused, while the dagger in her chest dug deeper and she felt the ashy stone floor of the Red Keep - she couldn’t even protect her family. Maybe the Seven Kingdoms were better off without her, maybe someone else could build the better world and home she yearned for through all those years in exile. Maybe that’s why he did it. 

The pain, she realised, scorching and burning, was nothing compared to looking upon his solemn face. She had always thought he was beautiful, before they even began their courtship - all honour and justice and everything she wished she was. A bastard boy with nothing to inherit would be enough to turn anyone bitter to the world, and she felt it within him as she felt it in herself, but he was more than that. His bitterness fed his anger but his anger, in turn, helped him. His anger at his Night’s Watch brothers caused him to protect Samwell Tarly. His anger at the Bolton’s and Lannister’s for the systematic disassemblement of his family meant he got his childhood home of Winterfell back, and was chosen as King in the North as a consequence of his anger turned motivation - the White Wolf, they called him. She had felt anger too, so many times in her young life. Her foolish brother was all she had left of a blood heritage, her children picked off and her friends gone. She had felt that anger, burning like fire and leaving her as cold as ice in King’s Landing. The Red Keep was there, right there, everything she had worked and strived for for 20 years. She had won it. But it wasn’t enough. Drogon roared beneath her and her anger roared with him and reared its ugly head, no advisors left to chain her fury. I will take it, she thought. With fire and blood, I will take it. 

And this is what it cost her - her life taken at his hands. She had never loved anyone, not quite in the way she loved him. Drogo gave her power she never believed she could have, and woke the dragon within her - the last dragon this world would ever see, given she had been made barren by the witch she foolishly trusted. She always prayed for more family, a hidden relative also shielded by Varys that she did not know about, and the Gods took her prayers and mocked her. “My name,” his northern voice echoed in her head. The knife twisted deeper. “My real name,” the voice grew more distant as blood began to form in a puddle beneath her. “Is Aegon Targaryen.” Anger joined the pain as she began to lose consciousness - a dull pain that echoed throughout her. Fire and blood, her dying body demanded. Fire and blood. 

With a sensation alike to waking from a nightmare, her body gasped for air. Her vision focused on the ceiling above her as she violently awoke, distant and cold and angry as her eyes jolted open. She felt like she had been submerged underwater, a great expanse as cold as the waters of Eastwatch, and she had breached the icy surface, gaping and gawking as the fire within her awoke, still burning and blazing. 

“It’s alright,” a male voice soothed, deep and rumbling and high-born - she briefly thought the voice was Ser Jorah but instantly corrected the naive voice in her head. He’s dead, she reminded herself, and it was your fault. “Steady now.” 

It suddenly occurred to her, as the man placed a gentle hand at the nape of her neck, that she was suppose to be dead. She lifted her hand from where it laid still beside her and placed it on her naked chest. The pain came back to her, simmering across her pale skin as she felt the wound, bringing her reeling mind and body to the present - beneath the mark of the knife she could feel her heart beating rhythmically, tinged and pained, but very much alive. 

She lifted herself to sit quickly, flinching away from the warm touch against her still cold body. She went to speak, to question, to demand, to order, but could only gasp, her hand clutching desperately at her throat. 

“Leave us,” A woman’s voice demanded, clear and commanding as she appeared from the shadows. She wore a red dress, innately adorned with burgundy lace, and her black hair was tied in a knot upon her head. The man curtly nodded, dressed in a similar shade of red but with half the elegance, and promptly left, leaving Daenerys with the red priestess. 

“Here,” The woman placed a robe across her shoulders. She had only then realised how cold she actually was, and wrapped herself in the robe, seeking warmth - after their first night together, she held Jon for warmth as they headed north, the two of them against the coming storm. Jon, his name echoed in her mind. Jon, the man she loved, Jon, the man she saved, Jon, Jon, Jon. The man who killed her. A lump formed in her throat.

“I died,” she whispered, meek and small and so much like her former self. She could remember it vividly - it was the only thing she could coherently think about. He swore himself to her, he kissed her, and she kissed him. And he killed her. The lump grew stronger and tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. “He killed me.” 

“And I brought you back.” The woman took a confident step forwards, her gaze strong willed and undeterred. She reached out with an olive skinned hand and tucked an unbraided lock of silver, wavy hair behind Daenerys’ ear. “The Lord of Light is not done with you yet, Daenerys Stormborn. You can call me Kinvara.”

“You helped in Mereen,” Daenerys responded, careful and cautious, her voice wavering unsteadily. “I already served your Lord’s purpose in the fight against the Others. Why bring me back? He doesn’t want me anymore, he doesn’t need me anymore, no-,” She stopped. She swallowed the lump in her throat and bowed her head. No one needs me anymore, she finished in her head. No one wants me anymore.

“On the contrary, my Queen,” Kinvara brushed a gentle hand against her pale cheeks. Warmth and blood had returned to her body, painting her skin with blue veins and returning a red hue to her face. She tilted her chin upwards, and blue eyes met green. “My Lord is not done. The world has been saved and the Others are gone, it is true.” She leaned closer, and rubbed a soft thumb against the bottom of Daenerys’ cheekbone. “But the people are not saved. You will be their saviour. You must be.” 

“Their saviour?” The fire rekindled in her heart and she removed Kinvara’s hand from her face, a pale hand grasping her wrist and squeezing. Her blue eyes flashed. “I tried to save them. I tried to help them, to conquer peacefully, to have no innocent blood on my hands by the time I sat the throne.” Daenerys dropped her wrist. “And I failed.” 

“Even honest servants of the Lord make mistakes, Daenerys Stormborn.” She turned on her heels, picking up a goblet of wine along the way, and went to sit on a chair by the hearth. A small fire dwindled, but still crackled aggressively. She gestured to the seat across from her. “We are where we are and where we end up for a reason. Our work will begin here,” She held her gaze and took a sip of wine. “In Volantis.” 

“How did I get here?” She demanded, growing tired of illusive and inconclusive answers. She pushed herself off the wooden table. Her knees buckled when her bare feet touched the floor and she gripped the back of the chair for support, knuckles white and tense. 

“Your dragon,” Kinvara replied, either blissfully ignorant to Daenerys’ growing impatience or simply nonchalant. “Drogon. He is unharmed, but was mournful when he brought you to us.” Drogon, her mind called. My son. She felt herself grow stronger, and pushed herself to standing in order to sit in the wooden chair opposite Kinvara. 

“I know you’ll need time,” Kinvara continued, a smile ghosting at her lips as she saw Daenerys’ strength rekindle. She offered the goblet across the space between them, and she gladly took it, taking a sip of the sweet red wine. “But we need you. All of us. You freed over a million slaves in the East, my Queen, a million slaves who will support you to the grave.” Kinvara reached below her to place another log upon the hearth. The fire sparked. “But Westeros is doomed without you. With Bran Stark on the throne.” 

Daenerys froze. “Bran Stark?” She lowered the goblet from her lips. She had presumed Jon had taken the throne - her chest twinged with pain. She lifted her hand to touch the wound. Or if not Jon, maybe Sansa, or perhaps Tyrion. But Bran Stark? A crippled boy with no claim and no desire. 

“He calls himself the three-eyed raven,” Kinvara leant back in her chair and gazed upon the fire. Daenerys could see it reflected in her green eyes. She lingered, as if reading a book or scroll. “Many presume he will be good, kind and wise - how could he not with his powers?” She shook her head and lifted her gaze to meet Daenerys’, suddenly serious and solemn and grave. “They are wrong.” 

“And what would you have me do about it?” Daenerys demanded, leaning forward to meet Kinvara’s intense gaze. “I have no armies left, one dragon, no support.” She hesitated as she felt the lump slowly creep its way back into her throat. Daenerys swallowed - she had to be strong. “No love. Westeros hates me now.” 

Kinvara rose and took several purposeful steps before crouching in front of Daenerys. She had faced many a terrible thing, and looked upon all of them, but even she could not withstand the overwhelming intensity of Kinvara’s gaze. “Jurnegon rȳ nyke.” High Valyrian, fluent and elegant. Daenerys met her gaze. “Iksā Daenērys Jelmāzmo hen Targārien Lentor. Hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan, iksā se zaldrīzes's tala. Se Āeksiot Ōño iderēptan ao. Īlon mirre iderēptan ao. Kesi va moriot iderēbagon ao.” A hand, cloaked in red silk, reached to grab hers. Kinvara dug her nails in, squeezing, leaving crescent moon marks on the palm of her hand. Blood spilled, and Daenerys held her gaze. “Fire and blood.” Kinvara whispered. 

Daenerys squeezed back. She felt that anger bubble within her, sizzling, threatening to spill, beginning at her stab wound, spreading to her legs, to her face and to her hand linked with Kinvara’s, her nails digging in like knives. “Fire and blood.” She whispered back.

**Author's Note:**

> valyrian translations! 
> 
> "Jurnegon rȳ nyke": Look at me.  
> "Iksā Daenērys Jelmāzmo hen Targārien Lentor. Hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan, iksā se zaldrīzes's tala. Se Āeksiot Ōño iderēptan ao. Īlon mirre iderēptan ao. Kesi va moriot iderēbagon ao": You are Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Of the blood of old Valyria, you are the Dragon's Daughter. The Lord of Light chose you. We all chose you. We will always choose you.


End file.
